OUCH! by MR.E.

Monday, March 29, 2010

This past Sunday I took the opportunity to sup in what was a delightful "family-style" Italian restaurant- "O'Merta's."

Located at the Interstate Motel and Shower (Exit 8), there were ample portions on the plate and ample parking in the lot for multi-axled vehicles.

As I entered the eatery, the aroma of garlic mixed with cordite suddenly struck me- as did a b-b filled sap from behind; I found my mouth watering and my watch and wallet missing.

The host, furry costumed as the chain's kid-friendly advertising mascot, "Jimmy the Weasel" (known for quipping the catch-phrase in commercials: "You'll squeal for our meals!"), led me to a table in the main dining room decorated, as is their custom, in Early Bayonne.

After a heaping serving of Fuhgetti Boudit with a valachi gravanno, followed by Cherries Jubilee served flaming in the waiter's hand as he solemnly recited the coffee list and vowed only death would keep him from returning with Sweet n Low and a non-dairy creamer; I sent my compliments to the mattresses, and headed into the lounge for a snort- then into the bar for a drink.

Within walls lined with caricatures of the usual famed Italian celebrities: Sinatra, Gotti, Russell- respectfully referred to by their first names- "Frank," "John," and "Nipsey"- by the old-timers at the back table drinking from short glasses red wine they made with their own feet, I struck up a conversation at the rail with an unemployed physician's assistant (she may've said "magician's assistant"- it was noisy, and she was wearing a leotard, tails, and top hat ensemble) and stayed for a quick one (though I'm told eight) for the road.

I mentioned to my new friend that I wrote for the Drawn & Quarterly (published four times a year- March, April, May, and June) and was in search of a new topic, or, at the very least, a rich sugar-mama to support me.

As the evening neared its end, while trying to convince the becoming beauty (she didn't look this good a few drinks earlier) that any Polaroids I might snap of her back at my place would be tasteful and artistic, it was suggested to me by the bartender, Sam "the Bartender" Bucca, that an interesting subject for a magazine article might be "people's dreams," and also to "please keep the ruckus down!"

Bravo to Sam for his inspirational idea, and boo to the "assistant" for quickly leaving in a huff- which turned out to be a surprisingly fast German sports car.

To be clear, Sam wasn't referring to the dreams we have when we're young- like winning the Kentucky Derby or becoming Homecoming Queen (eight weeks at gender reinforcement camp ended that one); he meant the kind that come with slumber- or as I called it that night "The God Please Don't Let Me Die Like William Holden Time" (there's no camp for that, but there are twelve-step programs).

Once back at my apartment, settling in with a hearty meal in my stomach- and trying to ignore the couple across the hall loudly arguing ("I'm on top!" "No, I'm on top!" Jeez, just do it already!); I got into bed, with a notepad close at hand, having hopes high that Morpheus would visit with visions spectacular.

Snug as a bug in a rug (note to self: phone landlord, re: exterminator), I quickly drifted off and found myself in a long, dark, tunnel-like room. There were others along with me- dark figures- and we were all heading toward the light- the beautiful, bright, white light! My late Auntie Fungal, who died of Oldmonia, was there urging me on; and I saw my cousin Vinnie (Pesci was hilarious!).

Suddenly, I awoke with a head feeling the size of something a primitive culture might dance around in awe- to the sound of my door's buzzer, and crawled out of bed to greet my postman in my pajamas; how he got in my pajamas... well, you know.

From MR.E. to You

I recently returned to school; as of yet I don't have a major, but I have had a lot of minors...
I was accused of "statutory rape," but my lawyer got the charge reduced to "unlawful entry"...
He argued, how can you call it "rape" if she was already dead?...
When found in a skid row motel with a missing girl's corpse in the bed, it's best to tell the authorities that the room was like that when you checked in...
As an international superstar I try to set an example by giving back to the world and consider my trolling tween chatrooms for confused and lonely girls with daddy-issues a vocation...
I formed a charity to help promiscuous teenage girls- get their start...
I'm single, but "carried a torch" for my ex just long enough to set fire to her new boyfriend's car...
I don't regret one day of our relationship- it was a Thursday...
I want a real skinny girl; not because I think it's sexy, but it's likely she'll have poor self-esteem or a drug problem (those chicks'll do anything!)...
However, I am a sucker for big tits...
My dream is to settle down with a woman with whom I can have a child she wont try to drown...